


Take What's Yours and I'll Take Mine

by recrudescence



Category: Inception
Genre: Age Play, Kink Meme, M/M, Roleplay, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You see nothing odd about this? We're in your dream, in some kind of headmaster's office, and you're wearing a school uniform."</p><p>Inspired by a prompt from the Inception kink meme that called for some student/teacher spanking. Roleplay! Ageplay! Theoretical abuse of the education system!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take What's Yours and I'll Take Mine

Curtains half-drawn, rain pattering on stark mullioned windows. The carpeting is meant to look Persian, but Arthur assumes it's probably jacquard. Ever since the incident with Nash, he's paid very close attention to carpets.

The room they're in is dominated by a huge mahogany desk with nothing on it but a blotter, as if it's on display in an antique shop and not intended for actual functionality. From where he's sitting behind it, Arthur can see that there are a few armchairs situated in the area towards one corner, a glass-topped coffee table in the middle of them. Various lamps are lit here and there, but the place still seems somehow dismal. One wall is nothing but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, deep-stained to a russet shade, and the far wall boasts an awning over a marble fireplace, unlit. The books themselves are bound in deep reds and browns and blues, all gleaming like jewels and giving the impression of somehow being both crisp and musty. The overall effect is opulent, academic, and a bit forbidding.

“Really?” Arthur doesn't know whether to be amused or exasperated. “This is supposed to be training session for testing out escape routes. I was expecting something a little more creative than a page out of _Brideshead Revisited_.”

“Oops.” Eames scratches his ear, looking so studiously abashed Arthur can almost believe him.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Arthur continues in what he considers to be a very magnanimous manner. “But if this is from a memory, we should just wake up now and start over.”

“Believe me,” says Eames, “this is not a memory. At all.”

He stands with his hands in his pockets, which are sharply pressed khakis the likes of which Arthur has never seen him in before. There's also an equally immaculate white shirt, a neatly knotted tie, and a deep blue jacket emblazoned with something that remains a prep-school crest even once Arthur has scrutinized it for a good thirty seconds.

Arthur is positive his face has _you've got to be kidding me_ written all over it.

“You see nothing odd about this? We're in your dream, in some kind of headmaster's office, and you're wearing a school uniform.”

“And also only just sixteen. Funny, that. I really should be more careful, you're absolutely right.”

And when Arthur stops surveying the gleaming tables and antique crown molding, Eames has managed to shed approximately half his age. As soon as he's capable of doing anything but staring, Arthur is going to murder him

He looks breathtaking, standing there with a chip on his shoulder and nervousness in his eyes, the stance of someone putting forth bravado they aren't entirely certain how to wield. Clean-faced, that indecently full mouth parted, asking, “What was it you wanted to see me about, then?”

“Eames,” Arthur starts, standing so suddenly that the desk chair nearly upends.

And Eames drops his eyes to the desktop for a fraction of a second, not breaking character. “Yes, sir?”

Oh, _hell_.

Arthur wants to tell him to knock it off, possibly with a little profanity thrown in for good measure, but he can't seem to say anything at all.

Eames remains in front of him, a peculiar uncertainty on his face. Outside, the rain drags along the windows in dismal silvery smears. One word, and he could have Eames turning the ambiance into a tidal wave to drown them both back into the actual world. Arthur can see the smooth bob-and-rise in his throat as he swallows.

“Forging,” Arthur says after a long, precarious pause, “is completely inappropriate.”

The boy in front of him smiles. “Only if the payoff isn't worth the misconduct.” There's a hint of him, then, the Eames he berates and admires and fucks into various overpriced mattresses. Arthur sinks back into his seat and looks.

His hair is shorter, face unlined. No facial hair, making his lips seem that much more insouciant. The little dash of scar tissue on his eyebrow is still there, more evident than before. He's Eames through and through, a little smaller and a little less refined, and he's beautiful.

Arthur closes his eyes and counts to ten.

“Explain yourself,” he says once he's finished, resigning himself yet again to whatever caprices are flitting around Eames's mind.

Eames rolls his eyes, an amused little smirk on his face. “It's not hurting anyone. What's to explain?”

“You have a reputation, Mr. Eames.” Arthur leans back in his chair and lifts his eyebrows. “People _talk_. Now it's time to answer to it.”

“Oh, come the fuck _on_ ,” Eames mutters, looking pleased, if a little alarmed, to be answering back to an authority figure.

He isn't sure, at first, how to approach this version of the Eames he knows, this boy standing before the desk with his unpolished loafers and uncombed hair. No leering or tittering, playing the role as seriously as he would on an actual job. After a moment, Arthur pushes back his chair and walks around the desk to him.

“You're a very intelligent young man, Eames. There are far more beneficial ways to use your skills.” He touches him on the shoulder, only enough to feel Eames draw away and then catch himself.

“Maybe, but they aren't half as fun, now, are they?”

Those eyes meet his, just for a moment. Arthur tightens his grip until Eames is focusing on him instead of the floor. “Tell me what happened,” he says, keeping his voice low and steady

Eames's brow creases. “Just a few favors for a few papers written. All completely consensual.”

“Plagiarism, Mr. Eames, is the word.”

The shoulder still clasped under Arthur's hand shifts a bit. “It's just a game.”

“Tell me what happened.”

That gets him a crooked-toothed grin. “This is probably the most interesting thing you'll hear all month, isn't it? Fine.” Eames draws himself up, as if he's ready to impart some exotic secret. “I've got a system for what I do. Business always picks up around exams. Two of the other boys in my history class wanted their research papers done, but I could only have one finished before the week was out. They couldn't agree on who that should be, so they decided to one-up each other till I could see who was worth it. Do you follow?”

Arthur thinks he's starting to. He draws back his hand, crossing his arms to keep from fidgeting. “Go on.”

“We were being stupid. Two of us would take turns holding the other down to the bed and pouring shots down their throat.” The boy winces and rubs a palm against the back of his neck, but Arthur isn't quite fooled into believing he's actually embarrassed. “When it was my turn, one of them climbed on top of me I was so hard...”

Eames swallows, averting his eyes, smiling a little; no doubt _loving_ this, making Arthur squirm, and Arthur tries very hard not to move a muscle when Eames looks him dead in the eye and smiles. “I mean, we were all plastered, I don't even remember who it was who started it, but I know I told him to fuck me, right there, if he wanted his work done quicker.” He pauses, wetting his lips, Arthur's eyes obligingly noting the motion. “So he did. And then the other was jealous and did my mouth, which made it a draw. I _did_ manage to have both papers finished in time, but there must have been too much overlap in their contents. That's where I tripped myself up.” He actually _does_ seem embarrassed now, but Arthur barely notices.

“That...”

Jesus fucking Christ. He clears his throat. “That's a very interesting story, Mr. Eames.”

ChristChristChrist, he can't focus on anything but the mental image of Eames, fully bared and being fucked over a stodgy little dormitory bed, ass in the air and moans muffled in the pillows. “Your academic achievements are outstanding and it would be a shame for such a black mark to appear on your record. But there's no helping it: what you've done needs to be noted.”

Eames looks worried now. “Is there anything I can do to get this overlooked? I swear, doing work for other people is more trouble than it's worth. I'm through with it, honest to God,” and he sounds so sincere Arthur wants to laugh.

Instead, he resumes his place in the desk chair, very aware of the way his slacks stretch more tightly over the line of his cock and the way Eames's eyes track his every step. The way those eyes widen noticeably when Arthur nods at him and says, “Undress.” He beckons for Eames to come around to his side so he's within reach. “I can send you to the clinic for a much less forgiving examination or we can get the worst of it out of the way here.”

Eames lowers his lashes and Arthur wants to kick him. “Will I get points off for good behavior, sir?” Quietly, obedient fingers already working away at the buttons on his blazer until he can shrug the entire thing off and start on the shirt. His skin is pale when the cloth falls away. Stepping out of his shoes, stripping off socks, feet white against the carpeting. Pale like the sky outside, sunless and winter-blanched, but his face is tinged pink as the nondescript floral pattern vining along the wallpaper.

Arthur allows himself a tight-lipped laugh. “That depends, doesn't it?”

“Then I'll try to do my best.” Eames smiles and steps out of his underwear. Arthur stands very still and hopes it isn't terribly obvious that all the blood in his body just screeched to a halt and then abruptly plunged south.

“Good. Part your legs, please.” Arthur lays a hand on the firmness of one bare thigh until Eames does so, not bothering to slip out of his dress shirt and tie. Without preamble, Arthur folds his fingers loosely around the boy's cock, rubbing slightly. “You do understand why this is necessary, don't you?”

Eames nods, hands clenched at his sides. “Yes, sir.” Gasping when Arthur squeezes, using his thumbs to draw apart the opening at the tip and inspect it.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Eames?”

“Cold hands,” Eames answers, so unconvincingly it's really rather sweet.

“Hush,” Arthur chides, squeezing him again. “Let me work.”

It's such a bullshit excuse for nudity, but if Eames is willing to run with it, the least Arthur can do is _not_ half-ass it. Eames's cock is still soft, warm and smooth in his hand, and Arthur can feel every last tremor in that slim body when his fingertips brush the tender insides of thighs, hearing the swift-sharp gasp when he slides the foreskin back, making him shudder until the boy's nipples harden in the cool room. With the shirt completely unbuttoned, it's easy for Arthur to rise to his feet and and brush it aside in order to deliberately pinch first one nipple and then the other, and the way Eames bites the inside of his lip in order to keep quiet is almost more indecent than any noise he could possibly make.

Arthur hums vaguely, does it again. “Some sensitivity there, I see.”

“Yeah.” Eames is actually _blushing_. Arthur clenches his teeth and does his best to think of anything but throwing the boy down onto that ridiculously huge desk and fucking him until they're both too exhausted to move.

“You know,” Arthur remarks, “it's a wonder you aren't disease-ridden, the way you spread yourself for anyone who wants a piece.”

“Yes, sir,” says Eames, and he smirks again, alarmingly boyish. “I'm always careful.” He takes a half-step forward, trousers still a rumpled pool at his feet. Arthur adamantly does _not_ think of how easy it would be to kiss that smugness away. “You're not finished with me, are you?”

“Mr. Eames, your bad habits are going to get the better of you and I'm afraid discipline is necessary.” Calm-voiced, low and firm as he's got one of his hands splaying over half the boy's ass, feeling and seeing the clench of muscle under all that lovely bare skin. Arthur jerks his head towards the desk, willing his face to betray nothing. “If you could please bend over for me.”

Eames hesitates. Arthur tries not to preen. “Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

And without another word, Eames does. Face hidden, hands draped over the lip of the desk, shirttail barely covering the curve of his ass, and Arthur's palm goes slipping up, up, up the back of one leg to catch that cloth and lift it to gather at the small of Eames's back. “Good boy.” And, before Eames has any time to react to that, he brings his other hand down.

“ _God_.” The shocked scrap of sound seems to sneak out of Eames's mouth before he can stop himself.

Arthur thinks maybe he loves him for it. The next time he spanks him, he does it hard enough to make his palm sting and Eames shudder.

He does it again and again. Eames lets out harsh-hot sounds each time he makes contact. Slapped-red handprints appear, lurid smudges on that white skin, and it seems strange seeing him this pale. The Eames he knows is always a little tanned from the tropical locales he favors when he isn't working. Arthur finds himself wondering it this appearance is entirely accurate or if Eames is making himself appear more handsome than he really was. There's no self-consciousness to him, no acne, nothing like that, so maybe he's upgraded his past self a bit or maybe Eames really just _was_ a delicious specimen of a teenager, and Arthur needs to cut that line of thinking immediately but he's already doing more than just _thinking_ and he can't seem to stop. Eames's school tie is flicked over one shoulder and Arthur has him spread and vulnerable over a tabletop and the boy is moaning and rutting against it with every slap of Arthur's hand against the swell of his ass.

Rubbing his palm over the reddened flesh now and then, goading him when he lets out soft little grunts and gasps, spine rippling and skin hot to the touch and Arthur dizzy with want and achingly hard and learning over him, demanding in a snarl, ”Are you aroused? Do you enjoy this? What else do you let them do to you?” With both thumbs, he spreads Eames's cheeks, drawing him apart to expose that vulnerable little part of him and then just _looking_ until Eames is squirming and nearly panting and so, so clearly waiting for something to _happen_.

“Tell me. Do you like this?”

“ _Yes_ , damn it.”

Arthur releases him and lands a final slap on his ass. “Turn over.”

Eames flips onto his back, legs parted and shirt pooling around his elbows, the contact with his ass making him curse and cringe, but his cock is hard and dripping onto his flat stomach all the same. Arthur sneers at him. “Do you think this is supposed to be fun for you? It's amazing how you ever manage to get any work done when you're so easily distracted.”

“I'm sorry,” Eames fumbles. “I don't...I didn't mean...”

  
“I don't want your apologies,” snaps Arthur, pulling open one of the desk's drawers, and thank _God_ for Eames and his dirty, resourceful mind. Never a dull moment, in dreams or out of them. “Close your eyes and don't touch yourself.”

He pops open the container and takes his time lubricating his fingers. Eames whimpers, uttering a shocked cry when the end of one pushes inside him; Arthur's other hand presses flat to his stomach, rubbing, soothing him. “Shhh, easy. Is there any pain?”

His eyes are open and Arthur can't begrudge him that, not now, not while he's moaning and writhing and arching up to let Arthur slip that finger in all the way. “N-no...please, more.”

Arthur obliges and Eames hums with pleasure, all his lingering discomfort seeming to evaporate. It's beyond indecent. “God, you're a slut for it, aren't you?”

And Eames doesn't have to answer for Arthur to imagine him walking around, sans underwear, too lazy to be bothered with laundry, hard and leaking in his school trousers and not ashamed in the least. Or maybe lying sprawled in bed, naked, limbs tangled with sheets, with the mingled come of more than one boy leaking out of him from being fucked raw and open between classes. Or spending every night in a different classmate's bed, letting them have him however they pleased, or playfully throwing himself onto a friend's lap to flirt and laugh and grind against him until the other boy couldn't take the teasing anymore. Brash and cheerful and calling the shots— _right, I can get it written by Thursday, but you'll have to give me a little more...incentive_. Endorsing plagiarism in return for sexual favors, exacting payment from sullen, sure rich kids, and Arthur still doesn't know how much of this is true. Eames only swore that the room wasn't from memory, but even that could be a lie.

Eames is swearing, a litany of _fuck, oh fuck, goddamn it_ as Arthur goes about working in a third finger. Eames's thighs stretching still farther apart, nowhere to plant his feet for leverage short of bringing his heels onto the edge of the desk, wide and obscene and wonderful.

“Your language,” Arthur tells him, ”like many other things about you, is completely inappropriate.”

Eames smothers a whine and grasps the insides of his knees, toes curled. “S- _sorry_.”

“Can you do that for me, Eames?” murmurs Arthur. Their lips are less than an inch apart. “Can you behave?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say it.”

“I'll...” swallowing, sobbing, voice wet and ragged. “I can behave. Anything.” The tip of his erection is shiny and slick with precome, droplets smudging on his stomach, balls drawn up, muscles stretched pink and tight around Arthur's fingers, which are barely moving now, crooking to seek out his prostate and prod gently. “Gonna need more than that, _fuck_ , right there, don't stop.”

“Good boy.”

“ _Yeah_.” Eames's head falls back at that, mouth parted, still pleading that he needs _more_.

Arthur pauses. “I don't even know why I'm bothering. Look who I'm dealing with. You're probably loose and selfish enough to take my entire hand.” But instead of recoiling, Eames just shudders and hisses and Arthur realizes with a start that Eames would actually trust him enough to let him try.

That stuns him more than anything else. It makes him not want to think about it.

Shirt open, tie loose, and Arthur takes it up in his free hand because it's there and it's a distraction, drawing the silk against his nipples, dragging the tapered edges along the wet slit of his cock, watching the way the boy's chest shudders. “So you like being looked at? How many people have seen you like this?”

“I do, yeah,” Eames looks at him with wide-blown pupils, mouth red. “Like it when you look at me.”

His stomach is flat and slim, muscles drawn taut under flush-stained skin, nipples tight on either side of that partially loosened tie, Arthur still rubbing the silk of it against them, down his middle, the dip of his navel, crooking his fingers inside him again. “What is it you like best? Sucking cock? Having fingers pushing inside you, working you wide open until you can take anything they're willing to give you? Being fucked until you scream, tied up and held down?”

Eames bucks underneath him, clenching still harder around the width of Arthur's fingers, still stretching and rubbing and slick-curving into him.

“Oh...” Arthur continues slowly. “I think you must love being fucked. Look at how much you want it. Anything for a little attention, so hungry for it, anyone with a willing hand walks by and you're all ready to bend over for them, is that how it usually goes for you?”

Eames's body is goes rigid, hottight _hot_ around him, as if trying to draw Arthur's fingers further into him, and he's shaking and squirming and _begging_ now, loud and wanton and asking for him to move, for something bigger, for Arthur to please, please let him come, and the instant Arthur touches his cock he _does_.

Hot and hard and all at once, making a holy mess of his chest and Arthur's hand and the edge of his shirt, and all the while he's shaking his head and hissing _no_ and _don't_ and Arthur is convinced he's managed to somehow _hurt_ him.

Then Eames grips him by the wrist with one hot hand.

“Keepgoingkeepgoing, it's okay, I want it, don't stop.”

Sweet holy mother of _fuck_.

His eyes are closed, head lolling back against the wood of the desk, hips rolling up towards Arthur's hand. “Keep fucking me.” Lips curled in a faint smile, cock still mostly erect even though he's just come. It's the self-centeredness and insatiability of adolescence at their finest, and he's so beautiful like this that Arthur can't hold anything against him at all.

“I need more,” murmurs Eames, not opening eyes. “Please?”

Arthur keeps working his fingers inside him, regarding Eames as impassively as he can while the boy is looking at him with that lazy, blissed-out gaze and whispering,“I want you to fuck me so hard, sir, please.”

He doesn't say anything in response to that, just bends his head and licks around the bases of his fingers where they disappear inside Eames's body. Eames writhes into the contact and Arthur draws his fingers out altogether to replace them with his tongue.

There's the taste of artificial mint from the lube, the way he can feel the shivers raking through the boy's already-squirming form, the way that little bunch of muscle tightens on instinct and tries to close, then gradually relents around his tongue, letting him _in_ , and Eames is gripping both legs behind the knee again and gasping and straining and babbling. “So good, lick me, please, need something in me, need you to fuck me, won't tell, make it so good for you, want your cock, _please_.”

The cushioned chair is still in reach. Arthur scrabbles around with one hand to drag it back over and collapse into it, keeping Eames spread before him on the desktop, chest heaving. Studying him that way, idly dragging a finger through the damp sweat and come on his torso. “Tell me again,” he says, voice too rough and too breathless, “what it is you want.” Probing a finger up against his entrance again, feeling the way Eames wriggles and clenches and tried to take him in like he hasn't just come, Arthur still rubbing gently against his stomach.

“Please...need your cock, I'm so hard and I want to and I'll never tell anyone, I promise. Please, sir. Can I?”

There's really only one answer to that and Arthur isn't a big enough bastard to hold out.

The instant he's sitting up, Eames goes sliding onto his lap. Unzipping him, touching him so attentively it would be rude for Arthur _not_ to to cross-eyed, and _kissing_ him even though Arthur's tongue has been inside him. He moans, he keens, he sucks Arthur's tongue into his mouth like his life depends on it. His back arches when Arthur hands glide up under his shirt.

He plans on going slowly at this point, but Eames has other ideas. When he lines himself up and works himself down onto Arthur's cock, there's nothing slow about it at all--Arthur slips inside him all at once, filling him, and they _both_ groan then. Eames's cock is spilling precome as he's gripping the rim of the desk with both hands, throat bared, shirt caught in wrinkles and folds around his elbows while he uses the desk for leverage. Muscles flexing in his arms, Arthur's mouth hanging open, and Eames _fucking_ himself while Arthur is still, ridiculously, completely clothed other than his open fly.

“Gonna make this good, so good, I fucking promise.” Eames rambling more promises, Arthur's fingers teasing at his erection, need and want coiling inside him, a tight gasp dragging itself from his throat, and the boy straddling his goddamn _lap_ , tightening even more when Arthur manages to land a couple slaps on his ass again.

That just has Eames hissing for him to do it _again_ , the little ingrate. Egging him on and saying things like how much he loves the feel of Arthur's cock inside him, things like, “Please, will you come in me, make me hurt, I'll do whatever you like,” and “Any way you want me, just say,” all while naked and writhing and _coming_ , spilling over himself a second time.

And he still doesn't stop. Arthur can't do anything but watch the way his cock disappears into that tireless, lithe form over and over. Eames goes fucking through his second orgasm with abandon. Riding down onto him and clinging to him, taking him into the silky-hot clutch of his body until Arthur sinks his teeth into the side of Eames's neck and loses himself in it.

Eames, Arthur notes once he's able to open his eyes again, looks much too pleased with himself. “Don't,” he grumbles, “think I'm letting you out of here yet.” All it takes is a nudge in the ribs to have Eames scrambling off of him.

One of the desk drawers is already halfway open. “You seem to think very highly of yourself, don't you?” Arthur asks conversationally, as if Eames isn't watching with wary eyes as he rummages through the contents. Instead of drawing anything out, Arthur takes his time contemplating what he sees, refastening his pants, and only then flicking a glance at Eames. “Facedown again, please.”

It's a medium-sized plug, the one he chooses; opaque black glass, with a pleasing weight to it. Slicking it takes no time at all.

Eames is too sensitive to the touch, trembling as soon as Arthur presses the blunt tip of it to him, but he keeps his mouth closed and his head meekly down. “Maybe you won't be so quick to slut yourself out with this as a reminder, mm?” Eames with his come-smeared thighs parted and his body opening to take the toy in so readily, like he's used to it, and Arthur adores the way he shudders when it fucks into him. “You could just stay open for me like this. Wear it whenever I tell you. You'll do that for me, won't you?”

“ _Yes_.” Rocking forward when Arthur's fingers find the plug and withdraw it, slipping it slightly out of him and then filling him all over again, toying with it as Eames moans brokenly and writhes back towards him. His fingernails leave little marks in the varnish of the desk as Arthur keeps rubbing thoughtfully at the base of the plug.

“Think twice the next time you want to act like a whore. The next time you need this, you come to me. No more misconduct.” Leaning over him to kiss the bare dip of his neck, tapping a bit more firmly at the toy just to hear Eames curse. “None of your little classmates have ever done anything like this for you, have they?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep on being a good boy for me, then.”

He pulls the plug out entirely, then, pushing two fingers back in immediately afterward and, _fuck_ , Eames is still slick and wet and perfect inside, curving deliciously back against him and groaning, “God, you feel wonderful.” Sounding more like himself than this younger maybe-version of himself now, but Arthur forgives him and keeps right on finger-fucking him, slowly and easily as he's mapping the nape of Eames's neck with tongue and teeth and lips. Tugging, letting that shirt fall to the ground, finally unknotting the tie until Eames is nude and twisting his head back to kiss him in earnest, tongue thrusting into his mouth. Eames is supporting himself against the desk with one hand and gripping at Arthur's hair with the other, twisted around, belly still wet with come.

Arthur's fingers push into him once more before withdrawing. “Here.” He empties more lubricant into his palm, slicking up the plug a second time and holding it out.

Eames stares, looking every inch a bewildered schoolboy.

“I want to see you put it in this time,” says Arthur. “It's important that you know how to do it properly.”

If Eames is entertaining thoughts of homicide, he doesn't let them show. Biting his lip, moving onto his back, nodding with a submissiveness that makes Arthur's knees feel watery.

And he obeys: ankles notched in Arthur's shoulders, a hand between his legs, groaning and slowly inserting it as Arthur kisses him, fucking his tongue into that hot mouth and Eames _lets_ him, opening himself for Arthur in every way he can. “You can do it, keep going,” Arthur reassures him, half-muffled against the sweat-shiny arc of Eames's throat. “I know you can take this; I wouldn't do anything that was too much for you.”

He can feel the shiver that racks Eames's body when he works it all the way in. “R-rather have y-you in me, though.”

Arthur strokes his hair, kisses his cheek. “I know. But you've done terrible things and bad little boys don't always get what they want.”

Eames grits his teeth and whimpers. Arthur grips his jaw to keep him from turning his face aside. “How does it feel, Eames?”

“Full...hard...I want...” stuttering over his words, cock struggling to rise yet again. He gives up on words altogether when Arthur takes a seat and draws him into his lap, Eames hiding his face in Arthur's shoulder, fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket.

“ _Hush_. So good, Eames, you've done just fine...does it hurt?” Petting down his bare back, now and then going low enough to play over the portion of the plug protruding between his cheeks.

“Yes,” Eames whispers, eyes unfocused.

Arthur frowns. “Does that mean you don't like it?” he ventures, splaying a hand over Eames's middle.

“No, it doesn't.” Eames kisses him, earnest and wet and breathless. “I can do it. For you.”

Arthur chuckles. “Really.”

“I can be better, I already promised.” They sit, Eames melting into him, Arthur stroking his back.

“I'd love to keep you like this,” Arthur muses, “making you come again and again until you're too spent to move. Too weak to make any trouble for anyone. It might make both our lives easier.” Tracing the contours of his lips until Eames sucks the finger into his mouth, wriggling and rutting up against Arthur's hand. Already come twice and still anxious for another go. Arthur draws a fingernail up the underside of his erection. “Fuck, no wonder everyone in school's probably had a piece of you.”

Eames bites his finger. Arthur lifts an eyebrow and reaches down to press on the base of the plug.

“I should have you wear it to class.” He smiles, pressing once more for good measure. “Then if anyone wants you to forge an assignment for them, maybe you'll think before you answer them.” He likes the idea of that, keeping it in him so he can't take another lover. “I know you can be good, know you can do that for me...and I think you've learned your lesson now, don't you?”

Then Eames sits up very straight. “God. Oh, fuck. _Arthur_.”

He winces. “Shit.” The strains of “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” are perfectly audible now, drifting through the room and continuing to crescendo. Outside, the rain pounds down harder.

“Your fantasies,” Arthur says, “are insane.”

It seems very important to make this point very clear before they wake up.

“Right. And your tyrannical ideas of foreplay are completely mundane.” Eames snorts and holds him closer. “ _Sir_.”

The room is folding in on itself in slow motion, rain eating away at the edges like a larger-than-life watercolor. “Were you really such a devious little brat or was that all artistic license?”

“I'm a product of the British education system in so many ways.” Eames stands and smiles at him, stubble and crow's feet and pinstriped shirt in place once more, handsome and foolhardy and wickedly intelligent as ever.

The music swells around them and Arthur wants to kiss him but there isn't enough time.

Through the trills of Edith Piaf and the roar of the rain, he hears Eames laughing. “Wait till you see what I dreamed up when I made it to university.”


End file.
